Mary Anne Babysits Becca
by mcpon14
Summary: This is a story about a sitting experience Mary Anne had with Becca, Jessi's sister. Alternate universe. Oneshot. Mary Anne is the narrator.


"Ready or not here I come!" I yelled opening my eyes as I removed my hands from them.

"Okay," said a voice seemingly very near me.

I swept my eyes around the room looking for Becca but couldn't find any signs of her. We were in the bedroom of one of my favorite charges playing Hide-and-Go-Seek. You see, I'm a babysitter and I belong to a group of friends who are too - it's actually more of a business - but more about that later. The client I'm taking care of today is actually the younger sister of one of the members of that club.

"Don't go too far out Becca!" I yelled.

"Hee. Hee, I'm not. I'm right behind you."

I whirled around to face . . . nothing.

"No hiding outside! Remember?"

I went to the window and looked out scanning behind trees and cars for a partial reveal of her. Drat. She's making this kind of hard.

I almost gave up when I heard a slight snickering. I went towards the bed even though the sound was a little to the right of that seeing how there's no possible other place she could've hid had she really been hiding in this very room.

I got on my hands and knees and looked under it. Nope.

"Sigh," the voice to my right said.

"No one ever pays attention to me," it said. "I'm so untalented compared to Jessi. But I'm good at something! I've got you fooled!"

I turned around and caught sight of something . . . a vanity mirror, one of those attached erect atop a table in front of a chair where people sit to watch themselves while applying make-up.

I stopped and looked at it full-faced . . . and thought - racking my brain trying to scour my memory - did I REALLY have a sitting job today?

The only thing I remember is that I didn't. But aren't I covering for someone? If so, who was it? I don't remember.

"Hey!" the voiced chimed in. "Remember Mary Anne how today I requested you to be my sitter - specifically you? Do you know why?"Why?" I asked perfunctorily.

"Because you're a great listener! And you know how to feel what others are feeling."

"Thanks," I said mechanically. "I'm listening."

I looked at the mirror and felt my eyes getting wider and wider. I could feel the stretched arches of both eyelids.

"I'm listening," I repeated.

"Mary Anne? Mary Anne?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know that I'm having trouble with Charlotte? We're fighting."

"I'm sure you guys will make up and become best friends again," I said, pausing to think. "In fact, I think we could go over to her house right now and patch things up. You can call her while I leave your mom a note. But, uh . . . do you feel that you could talk to her? I'll hold your hand?"

"Um, that's the thing . . ."

There was a long pause that hung in the air.

The voice began again sheepishly: "Um . . . Mary Anne?"

"Yes?"

"Will you promise to not tell my mom?"

"Yes."

"Or dad?"

"Yes."

"Or Jessi . . . especially Jessi?"

"Yes."

"Thanks," the voice said smallishly, then quickly added, "And please, please, PLEASE, don't tell Aunt Cecilia. You HAVE to PROMISE!"

"I promise," I said, sort of aloof from the conversation.

"Well . . . " the voice began. "Well . . . Charlotte made me SO mad! She just made me SO MAD! That I . . . that I . . . "

The voice abruptly cut off.

"Go on. I'm right here for whatever you need," I said trying to tease her out of clamming up.

"Well, I ran into Benny Ott. And I was fuming! He asked about why I was so mad. I told him that I just had a fight with Charlotte. He said, "oh?" Then he told me that he has something that can help. I went to his house after school and he showed me . . . these stories. He said that his parents don't know what he reads online. He can't look at any bad pictures but he can read. He came across these stories of, these stories of . . . kids who hung themselves after not feeling like living any more and -"

"What!" I cut in. "You . . . what are you trying to tell me?"

"Well . . . I tried it . . . and it worked," the voice said. "Benny helped me."

"Benny -"

"Yeah."

The air hung heavy for awhile.

"Um, that's why, um, I can't go to Charlotte's to apologize for the fight."

I felt the owner of the voice curl a little into herself after saying that.

I stood there letting all of that information sink in.

"So . . . where are you now? How come you could talk to me?" I challenged.

"Look behind you," the voice said.

I spun around . . . and there was nothing . . . again.

"I'm looking right at you."

I slowly walked closer with my mind swimming at the moment. I felt like a zombie using one outstretched arm as an antenna, groping at thin air with my fingers.

I looked into the space in front of me reaching for any possibilities of truth. And as I did, I could feel as if my hand is touching the inside of what an outline is encasing. I felt my mind dawdle a bit waiting for that outline to materialize, to delineate the owner of that voice's shape from her surroundings in front of my eyes.

My fingers wiggled slowly as my body relaxed with my brain.

"Becca?" I ventured.

"Yes. It's me," the voice replied. "Hi Mary Anne. I don't know how I'll get used to this. I don't know how my family will adjust. I still love them. And I hope they will let me stay with them for as long as I'll need it."

The voice paused a bit seemingly to re-compose herself before continuing.

"I'm scared, Mary Anne. This is all too scary for me."

"Okay," I replied in as soothing of a tone as I could muster.

"Will you help me break the news to my family? To my friends?"

"Yes," I said slowly but determined.

Then suddenly, from the inside of the wall that was nearest my right side, Becca burst out, sending debris towards me and tackled me down landing on top of me. There were pieces of wood, insulation material and drywall scattered all over her floor and bed.

I looked at the gaping hole left behind as she laid on top of me and I gawked at her grinning face from the bottom.

"Gotcha!"

"How did you do that?" I asked.

Her smile widened. "I'm black," she said.


End file.
